


Death, Thou Shalt Die

by Sir_Thopas



Series: Corsicon [1]
Category: Transformers, Transformers: Beast Wars
Genre: M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Thopas/pseuds/Sir_Thopas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dinobot has learned his lessons well: To make War is to make Peace, to Submit is to Win, to tell the Truth is to Lie, and to Die is to Live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will contain "slash". I put this in quotation marks because – at least for this story – Transformers do not have sexes, only genders. I have written them as being capable only of asexual reproduction where new sparks are created through mitosis (the spark splits in two, creating a new spark, much like a cell). Transformers are able to "interface" which is analogous to sex, but since they are a sexless species and the act cannot in anyway result in a new spark the term "sex" is inappropriate. There is nothing truly physically different between "mechs" and "femmes" in this story except for the way Cybertronian society perceives them to be and the only reason that Cybertronians view femmes differently is because they're original creators – the Quintessons – taught them to treat them differently.

I have no friend but resolution and the briefest end.

The words echoed through his processor as Dinobot drew back his sword before plunging it forward, stabbing the air with a fatal blow. He pulled back, pivoted, and crouched low to slice at the knees of his invisible enemy. There was no force behind his actions; just the slow, serene movements of a Predacon at peace.

There would be no more battles for him. All he had left was this moment. He wanted to feel the weight of his sword resting in his palm one final time. His sword was his lifeline, the very extension of his spark. He would die by this sword. It had spilt the fluid of so many mechs, why not his too?

His pedes swept around the swath of morning light streaming in from the window, sticking close to his shadows.

Time is running out, a voice deep within his processor warned. His shift would begin soon. The Maximals will come looking when he failed to arrive. Yet Dinobot did not stop his dance. Parry, thrust, strike. He wondered how they would react when they discovered his offline and empty shell. No doubt they would be sad, depressed, confused. All the wrong emotions. They would not understand. His honor was Predacon honor; his actions were those of a Predacon.

The form came to an end and Dinobot stood still, locked in his ready stance, before slowly relaxing. His comrades could not understand, but they deserved an explanation nonetheless.

"Computer," Dinobot commanded. "New entry. Status: Public. No password required."

Dinobot came to sit in front of the console as the computer beeped in acknowledgement. This would be his very last entry to his personal log. His comrades will discover it and read it, although he was unsure if they would truly understand his story. It was a Predacon story and they were so very Maximal. But he would tell it to them anyway. He would tell them everything.

He would begin with his real designation: Berserk.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something was going on.

Berserk tried switching on his personal console one last time, not really expecting it to turn on. The screen remained blank. His computer was not the only one that had mysteriously stopped working today. None of the other students could get theirs to work either. The screens and monitors that lit up Gamma City like so many multi-colored lights were dark as well. There was no news, no advertisements; every single screen in the entire colony remained blank. It was eerily silent; the constant humming of the screens was gone, a noise that Berserk had not even realized had existed. He had grown so used to it that now, without it, it set him on edge. What was worse was the fact that with none of the consoles working the only form of communication available was the short-range communicator.

"Well, whatever it is it's not a power outage," Kamikaze stated as he scanned the city from the window. "Everything else is working."

Berserk did not bother to answer his friend. He merely continued to glare at his console as though he could will it into working.

"You two!" Berserk and Kamikaze whipped the helms around to see Turret standing in their barrack. Without even thinking they immediately jumped to attention and saluted. "Stop with the recharge parties. Get your afts into the training field!"

Without another word Berserk and Kamikaze followed their commander out into the field. None of the officers at the Training House had mentioned the strange silence. Therefore none of the students were to speak of it. They were to carry on as though it were a completely normal solar cycle. Dissension was not tolerated in the Gamma Colony.

Berserk and Kamikaze walked out into the gray light towards the other students, already lined up and practicing their drills. The light was what the Gamma Colony was known for. The entire moon had a smog-like atmosphere, thick and gray; their leader, Razorclaw, chose this moon as his new Predacon colony because of the coverage it would provide the military and the rich supply of energon that ran beneath the capital. Airstrikes were impossible in the fog, not if their enemies actually wanted to see their targets.

Berserk fell into line and began to copy the movements of the other students, pushing the suspicion and paranoia to the back of his processor. The strikes and punches and kicks soothed his worry like nothing else could. This was he was meant to do. This was what he was built for. His tall, large structure was so typical of frontline soldiers, designed to shield the more important generals, cavalry, and fliers from enemy fire. Since the moment he came online Berserk had lived at the Training House, learning with the other younglings designated for infantry, until the solar cycle he would be sent into battle. Berserk knew that the other trainees – the fliers, the engineers, etc. – all referred to the infantry as cannon fodder. The others could say what they liked. It was an honor to die for the Predacon Empire.

Suddenly a humming filled Berserk's audios. It broke his concentration. The other students stopped as well, looking around for the source of the noise. "Is it the computers?" One of them asked. "Have they come back online?" The humming grew louder until it sounded like it was right on top of them. Berserk realized what the sound was: engines. There were fliers somewhere above them, hidden by the gray mist. What was going on?

The humming slowly softened, growing quiet as they flew out of range. The students all looked at each other, hoping that someone would provide some sort of answer. "Look!" Kamikaze cried out, point up at the sky. Berserk jerked his head upward to see thousands of white objects floating down towards them.

"What is it?" One of the students cried out. "Is it a weapon?"

The white objects landed gently onto the ground. Berserk picked one of them up. It was thin and nearly weightless and he saw that there was writing on it.

ALL NON-COMBATANT CIVILIANS: BY 0400 LOCATE TO ONE OF THE FOLLOWING QUADRANTS – CENTARI QUADRANT, AUXILIS QUADRANT, TARSUS QUADRANT. BE ADVISED THAT ALL BOTS NOT WITHIN THESE QUADRANTS BY 0400 WILL BE TREATED AS HOSTILE.

There was nothing of importance in those three quadrants, just a few minor cities. Nothing at all like the great capital that he lived in. Berserk noted that all three quadrants mentioned in the strange note would be on the dark side of the moon by 0400. However, before he could think much more on the note the yard was filled with the sound of rapid gunfire. Berserk looked to see Turret standing there, gun in servo, ready to shoot again if the students continued to break the line. His face said it all: if they didn't line up then the next time he shot off his weapon he would be aiming at one of them.

"I have just received word from our great leader Razorclaw that you are to ignore these messages. It is a Maximal trick, designed to confuse us and make us lose sight of our true goal. You are ordered to return to your barracks and stay there until further notice."

Immediately the students fell into sharp, even lines at the sound of their commander's voice and marched to their barracks as though they were nothing more than drones. However, excited chatter erupted amongst the students the moment they entered the metal building and were free of Turret's ever-watchful optics.

"Do you think there will be an attack?"

"The Gamma Colony has the best army in the Predacon Empire. The Maximals would be stupid to attack us!"

"They are stupid."

"They're also cowards," one of the students snorted. "The Predacons have been rebuilding the army for decades and they've yet to do anything about it! All they do is whine about how it violates the Pax Cybertronia. They're just trying to scare us, that's all. If there was really going to be an attack then the government would have told us. This is what we've been training for! To fight the Maximals!"

"Not all of us apparently," Kamikaze stated as he turned off his communicator. "One of the fliers in the North Barracks just told me that they're sneaking out of the Training House and heading to the Tarsus Quadrant."

"What?" Berserk hissed. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "They're deserting?"

The students nervously looked at each other at the news. It was shameful; even the mere thought of desertion made the infantry models react with guilt and disgust. The greatest crime a Predacon could commit was to desert the army. For a long while no one said anything.

"You would think," Kamikaze mumbled, more to himself than to anyone else. "That the government would have told us something, or, at the very least, fix whatever the problem is with the computers."

No one bothered to answer him. They were all too uncomfortable to follow that line of code. No one was allowed to even think about questioning Razorclaw and the government. Cycles passed and still none of their commanders came for them. The students didn't speak much. There were a few half-hearted conversations that quickly petered out as the anxiety began to take hold. Everyone was on edge; they had heard nothing outside. It was completely quiet. They waited.

Suddenly, for a few nanoclicks, the air was filled with an audio-splitting screeching. Berserk had just clasped his servos over his audios before he found himself being lifted into the air as the entire ground shook. He landed in a heap on top of another student. Ignoring the other bot's protests, Berserk got up to look out the window. He could see fire through the thick smog; it looked like the entire city was on fire! He could see eruptions of red and yellow through the white smoke as the blasts continued, all the while the ground shook and the metal walls screamed.

"What's going on?"

"The Maximals are bombing us!"

"What are they targeting?"

"I don't know!"

So, that's why they ordered all civilians to the dark side of the moon, Berserk mused as he continued to watch the blaze. They can't tell which buildings are military targets and which belong to civilians. So, they're overwhelming the enemy with bombs and blasts, intending to destroy everything. Berserk reluctantly conceded that it was a good strategy. Although, he wouldn't have bothered to give any warning. There was no such thing as a civilian Predacon.

"Get down!"

There was an explosion and ringing suddenly filled Berserk's audios. He felt a piece of the metal building slam into him, scorching his structure. The entire barrack was like an inferno; he could feel his superstructure beginning to melt. It took a few nanoclicks before his optics blinked back online. An entire wall of the barrack – the barrack that he had lived in his whole life – was gone. Debris was everywhere.

Berserk stumbled to kneel next to Kamikaze. He was lying prone on his side, his lower half buried beneath rubble. Berserk scowled. He couldn't tell if his friend was in stasis lock or offline. It didn't matter. He had to destroy the enemy. It was his duty.

Berserk transformed into his tank mode and rolled out of the barrack. His fellow students who had survived and stayed were already out in the streets, engaging the enemy. The Maximals were now on the ground, eliminating the last few pockets of resistance after their debilitating airstrike. Berserk fired off a few shots, blasting a Maximal soldier into one of the few buildings still standing before transforming. He stalked over to the prone Maximal who stared dazedly up at him. Berserk pulled out his blaster and shot him point blank in the spark chamber, extinguishing his life. Berserk dimly noted that it was his first kill.

Berserk hissed as he felt a sudden searing pain in his shoulder guard. He had been shot from behind! Berserk snarled to himself. He should have expected no less from a cowardly Maximal. Berserk whipped his head around to see a Maximal holding a blaster. This Maximal was different from others: thin waist, wide hips, delicate features. A femme. Berserk had not seen one before. Only a servoful of Predacon femmes existed and most of those were on Cybertron spying on the Maximals. What was the point of them? Only Maximals and Autobots thought they were useful enough to build.

Berserk saw the femme's optics widen and her servos falter. She lowered her weapon in shock. "You… You're just a kid!" She protested. Berserk didn't bother to answer. He swung his blaster towards her, but she was faster. He felt the impact in his chest plate and then he was falling down and everything was black.


	2. Chapter 2

Berserk scowled fiercely from behind the high-energy bars that kept him locked within the cage. His optics remained trained on the Maximals as they moved to and from the holding area of their temporary base. They referred to themselves as "Peacekeepers". Berserk snorted to himself at the thought. They were soldiers, plain and simple, and highly trained ones at that. Trained to kill, just like him. Maximals always engaged in that sort of doublespeak. They liked to pretend there was no need for a military. It was all too… Predacon for their taste.

Berserk kept himself from rolling his optics when he spotted the same Maximal femme that had shot him until he had been forced into stasis lock. She was back again. She often came and spoke with him; well, more accurately, she spoke at him. Berserk never made any attempt to engage in conversation, partly because his silence unnerved her and partly because she insisted on blithering on about how poor and unfortunate he was. Yes, unfortunate to be bested by a Maximal! The small flier made her way towards his cage, a bounce in her step. Of course she was happy; she was the victor. "We've finally closed the last of the Training Houses!" She crowed cheerfully as she came to a stop in front of him. "Isn't that wonderful? We've got the kids in protective custody at the moment, but I'm sure we'll be able to find most of their progenitors. We've already started building schools. Just think you'll be able to go to a real school and download a real education!"

"Education!" Berserk sneered. The femme gave a little jump; it was the first time he had spoken in her presence. Berserk stood up slowly, towering over the adult Maximal despite his younger age. "And just what exactly would you have me learn?" Berserk continued, growling in rage. "More of your Maximal lies?"

"We're trying to help you!" She protested. "You've been fed this… this Predacon paranoia your whole life! They've just been using you to fight their delusional wars! They took you from your family, trained you since you were sparkling, all to die for their stupid cause. Don't you see you could have a better life?"

"This is the only life worth living!" Berserk screeched. "I would gladly kill and die for the Predacon cause! If I were free now I would kill you all!"

The Maximal femme reeled back as though she had been slapped. Within nanoclicks another Maximal appeared, his face centimeters from Berserk's. "Sit down and shut up!" He commanded. "Or I'll put you with the adults."

Berserk reluctantly sat back down as he watched the Maximal take the femme by the elbow and lead her away from his cage. He could hear them talking to each other lowly. "Don't engage with them," the Maximal told her. "It's no use."

"He's just a kid," the femme insisted. "A youngling! He's like that because they indoctrinated him to be a violent killer. He can be re-trained. He can be a good bot – a peaceful bot – if given the chance."

"No, he can't," the Maximal stated gently, but firmly. "He's a child soldier. He's damaged. In more ways than one."

The femme shook her head as though trying to block out his words, but the Maximal pressed on. "Besides, he's a Predacon. This is what they do. It's in his hardware. You can override the programming, change the software, but he will always be a Predacon deep down." Then, mumbled under his intakes, "I think it'd be best if we just off'd the whole lot of them."

Berserk saw the femme pull back from his embrace, shock evident on her face. He didn't know why she looked so surprised. It's not as though the Autobots and Maximals haven't been saying that for megacycles. Before she could say anything to her companion however, another Maximal entered. He was pushing a gurney with a large Predacon mech strewn across it, offline. With a jerk Berserk leapt to his pedes, unable to believe what his optics were seeing. He recognized the red and yellow and black superstructure; it was the same mech that had addressed his people every morning and every night for decades, commending them on their dedication to the Predacon Empire and thanking them for the sacrifices that they had made. It was the leader and founder of the Gamma Colony.

"Primus," the femme gasped. "Is that…?"

"Razorclaw!" Her companion exclaimed.

The Maximal with the gurney nodded as he came to a stop, showing off the body of the once-great Decepticon warrior as though he had killed him himself. "Yeah, we found him and most of the high-ranking Preds in the Tarsus Quadrant already offline," He said with a smile. "They'd fled the capital about the same time we knocked the colony's communications offline. Committed suicide not long after we took Gamma City. Take a good look, guys. This is the last of the original Predacons. Well... almost the last. There's still one of them running around out there but pretty soon he'll be just as dead too. He can't hide forever."

Berserk sunk back down on the bench, unable to believe his optics. The Maximals paid him no attention as he attempted to process this information. How could the government abandon its people? How could Razorclaw simply give up the cause he had worked on for centuries? He should have died in battle fighting the Maximals with his last intake! Berserk shook his head. No, he thought, they were lying.

Maximals always lied.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One lunar cycle passed before the Maximals released him from his cage. During that time Berserk came to a few realizations. At the moment, he would have to concede the battle to the Maximals. It was pointless to continue fighting his crusade. He would simply wind up offline and the Predacon army would be down one soldier. It would be an entirely needless and pointless death and there would be no honor or glory in it. No, it was better to live and fight another solar cycle, as they say.

He tried not to wonder if this made him a coward. So many of his friends and comrades had perished in the battle, why should he be spared from the massacre? He tried to block the voice hissing in his processor, telling him he was a traitor for living when so many others hadn't.

He walked sullenly beside the Maximal femme through the desolate streets of Gamma City. The city had been rebuilt quickly, but it wasn't the same city it had been only a lunar cycle ago. Berserk saw more Maximals in the streets now than he did Predacons, patrolling the area and ensuring the "peace." They made him feel nervous and uneasy.

"Since you're still a minor we'll be placing you in the care of an adult," the femme chattered away. Berserk was only partially listening. "We were worried that we would have to place you with a stranger. But would you believe it? We actually found your progenitor! So many records had been destroyed during the attack but we found your registration into the Gamma City Training House, which listed his name."

The mention of his progenitor was enough to pull Berserk out of his reverie. "What?" He demanded, but the femme ignored him as she stopped in front of a building complex. She pressed the button for entry and within nanoclicks the door slid open revealing a large, imposing mech. He was even taller than Berserk and considerably larger. He looked down at Berserk with an apathetic sneer across his face. Berserk had never met his progenitor before. He had never even known his name. Like the rest of the students at the Training House, Berserk had been taken from his creator as a sparkling to be trained, a sacrifice for the war effort. He knew that his designation as an infantry unit meant that his progenitor was of low social standing, possibly even forced into sparking Berserk by the government in order to meet the recruitment quotas.

The Maximal, however, seemed completely unaware of the icy tension between progenitor and offspring. "Berserk," she chirped. "This Carnage. Your progenitor. Carnage, I'd like for you to meet your offspring, Berserk."

She looked so pleased with herself. Berserk wanted to shoot her in the face.


	3. Chapter 3

The Maximal looked terrified as the Predacons began to close in on their prey. Berserk simply leaned back and watched with the older students as the Predacon sparklings surrounded the hapless Maximal teacher. "Look at this glitch," stated their pint-sized leader as his optics roved over the Maximal. "He's scared already. What are you scared of, Maximal?"

The Maximal placed his servos on his hip joints and glared down at the swarm of sparklings. Berserk could see the worry in his face. The sparklings could too. "I am not scared," the Maximal said, anger coloring his voice. However, he immediately regained control and held up his servos in supplication. "Look, class is about to begin. I need you all to get into your seats."

The sparklings burst into laughter. "He is scared! He's scared! What a glitch!" They began to jeer loudly. "Where's your progenitor, glitch? Go suck oil from your progenitor's mammary units!" A few of the tiny Predacon children were making obscene gestures. Two of them jumped up onto their chairs and began to playfully pantomime violent interfacing that they had seen from Primus only knew where.

The Maximal took a step back, worry and horror on his face, ready to run and get help at any moment. Berserk sneered. It was pathetic. The Maximal couldn't even handle a couple of sparklings.

"What in the Pit is going on here?" The director of the school, Manhunter, demanded as he entered the room.

"Manhunter!" Berserk rolled his optics at the sheer relief that came out of the new teacher's mouth. "These kids… I just… I don't know-"

"Get into your seats, you rusty little brats!" Manhunter snapped, completely ignoring the stuttering teacher. The sparklings grumbled as they climbed into their chairs. Manhunter took the time to glare at each one before his optics finally locked onto Berserk's.

Berserk gave a small smirk as he slid into his chair, the other four students standing next to him soon following suit. They were roughly the same age as Berserk and, like him, all infantry models. He hadn't known them personally until arriving at the school, although they had all belonged to the same training house. Since the battle they were the only Predacon infantry units that Berserk had seen. He had no idea where Kamikaze was or any of the others from his barrack. They were probably offline, like Berserk should be. It was their duty to die for their empire.

The teacher shot the older Maximal a grateful smile. "Thank you, Manhunter, I promise-"

"I need you to leave." Manhunter didn't even bother to look at the other Maximal.

The teacher's smile faltered. "What?"

"If you can't handle the sparklings then I need you to leave. Just go back to Cybertron. You're no help to me here." With that Manhunter began to pull up text on the large screen that faced the students. For a few nanoclicks the teacher just stood there, unsure of what he should do, before quietly exiting the room, the sparklings catcalling as he went.

Manhunter looked up, his optics once more settling on Berserk. The Maximal gave him a slight sneer. "So you'll be gracing us with your presence today, Berserk? I have to say, I'd have thought you would show up more often considering that you've been placed in Basic Studies. What's the matter, Berserk? Did the Predacons not bother to teach you anything?"

Berserk ground his dentals together in anger and hatred. "They taught me useful things," Berserk hissed. "Like how to kill Maximal scum. It certainly proved useful."

Within nanoclicks the old Maximal was looming over him, his face inches from Berserk's. "Listen, kid, I let you in here as a favor to Valkyrie. She keeps insisting that there's something decent inside you. Personally? I think you're murderer and you should have been locked up with the other Preds, never to see the light of day again, but because you're a few solar cycles shy of your majority I'm the one who got stuck with you. So this is how it's going to go: you come to class, you sit down, you be quiet, and you slagging learn something. Got it?"

Berserk stood up from his chair, forcing the Maximal to look up at him. There was no way that Berserk was going to allow a Maximal to command him. "No." Berserk whispered before calmly walking out. As he left Berserk could hear the ensuing chaos that his departure caused behind him. By leaving, Berserk had destroyed the illusion of any control Manhunter might have once thought he had. The Maximal couldn't control him, he couldn't force him to do anything. Within nanoclicks the rest of the students came pouring out, the sparklings rushing out of the building and back into the gutters that they had crawled out of.

The four infantry units quickly came to walk beside him. "Ha, you should have seen his face, Berserk!" Laserblast guffawed. "He didn't know what to do when you just left like that!"

Berserk hid his amused smile and said nothing.

"That was great!" Laserblast continued. "What should we do now?" He turned to look at Berserk.

Berserk shrugged uncaringly. "I'm going home."

"You mean that's it?"

Berserk didn't bother to turn around.

"Oh, okay!" Laserblast called out. "That's fine! We'll just… uh, go do something! We'll see you later."

Berserk didn't bother to say anything. Primus they could be annoying sometimes, especially Laserblast, but he supposed he would have to put up with them. He would need allies.

It didn't take long for Berserk to reach his "home". He typed the security password to open the door only to be denied. Berserk sighed and leaned against the wall, ready to wait however long before Carnage unlocked the door. Berserk always found himself locked out when Carnage was conducting a transaction. It hadn't taken long for Berserk to learn that his progenitor dealt in the black market. The older Predacon was able to get his servos on items that were nearly unheard of in the Gamma Colony, like high-octane fuel. The good stuff that only someone like Razorclaw would have been able to get. High-octane had most certainly not been a part of their rations, not under Razorclaw's regime and certainly not under the Maximals'. Under Razorclaw, a common bot like Berserk would be lucky to receive enough energon to stay fueled, but Carnage had warehouses full of such luxury items. It was all too… decadent for Berserk's taste. He found the whole business to be unsavory. But, he kept quiet about it. It wasn't any of his concern and he knew that if he could Carnage would throw him out the click he got the chance, but that Maximal femme Valkyrie liked to do regular "check-ups" as she called it. They knew that if she was unhappy about the way Berserk was living then she would bring the whole Maximal force down upon Carnage's head. So, he and Carnage had come to an agreement: they stayed out of each other's way and refrained from speaking to each other. Berserk wouldn't meddle with Carnage's business and Carnage wouldn't dump him in the streets. So far it was working well.

The door slid open and a large Predacon walked out without so much as giving Berserk a glance. The young Predacon quickly slipped inside. He saw Carnage carefully putting his credits inside the hidden safe he kept in his "office" but he didn't bother to greet his progenitor. It was better that way.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"And so, Megatron encountered Unicron," Manhunter droned on, knowing full well that what he said had little impact on his students. Most made their disdain for the Maximal obvious. They chattered amiably to themselves as Manhunter continued his lesson; most of the sparklings played their various childish games while a few watched unabashedly as two of the older students in the back teased each other's ports, nanoclicks away from interfacing right then and there. Everyone in the classroom was well aware that their teacher had lost all pretense of power the solar cycle Berserk walked out. The only reason the younglings bothered to show up at all was because of the Maximal guards that patrolled the city's streets. If caught in an area they were not supposed to be in the guards would send them into stasis lock, sparkling or not.

Berserk forced his expression to remain neutral and aloof, following along with Manhunter's lesson as he read the text on the screen. He was loathed to admit it but he was beginning to find the Maximal's lessons interesting. He had known bits and pieces of Predacon and Decepticon history from the Training House, but mostly the students were only allowed to learn the words of their great leader Razorclaw and how he and his fellow Predacons - Divebomb, Headstrong, Rampage, and Tantrum - created the Predacon race. He was taught to be loyal to his leader, to his people, and to the cause. He had had only a vague understanding of Megatron and the Great War before Manhunter. Although, with the Maximals, Berserk could never be sure what was true and what was a lie…

"Well," Laserblast groaned as he stretched in his chair. "I've had enough of this drivel. I can't stay here any longer."

"What about the Maximals?" One of the other infantry models asked.

Laserblast shrugged. "I'm willing to risk it. What about you, Berserk?"

Berserk scowled but got up with the rest of them. He wanted to stay and hear the rest, but he didn't want to appear to be a Maximal sympathizer either. He looked at Manhunter who shot him a knowing glance.

"Yes, Berserk, run along," the Maximal sneered. "Just follow the crowd. Even if the crowd consists of nothing but idiots."

Berserk shot him a dirty look but said nothing as he left the building.

The group of younglings darted through the city, always on the lookout for Maximals. They made their way to a bombed-out building near an abandoned part of Gamma City. The Maximals had not bothered to rebuild this part of the city and Berserk had no idea if they ever would. The building – which Berserk and the others had quickly come to see as 'their' building – still retained all four of its walls, but the ceiling had collapsed, leaving the floor covered in rubble. The five of them would often go there just to feel free; free of the Maximals, free of the adults, and free of all their rules.

This time, however, there was already someone inside.

Two Predacon fliers were sprawled on top of the rubble, drinking down their illegal high-octane. Berserk recognized them from the Training House. He remembered how the fliers had fled from the oncoming Maximals, leaving he and his friends to fight and die. Berserk felt himself boil over with rage at the sight of the two carefree bots lounging in front of them.

"Beat it, this is our spot," Laserblast snarled. If they had their weapons they would have shot the two fliers on the spot, but because the Maximals had banned all Predacons from carrying energy weapons they could do little but stand there and glare.

One of the fliers rolled his optics. "Whatever, Wheeled Shield." It was an old nickname from the Training House, in reference to the fact that most infantry units were used as living shields in battle. Berserk ground his dentals together at the sound of it. That's how these two bots thought of him and his comrades, wasn't it? All those that had died in the battle were completely expendable to them. A common foot soldier was not as important as a flier. "It's not like you can make us or anything. Not without your weapons." And with that the flier tipped back his head and began to drain his oil.

Berserk didn't even bother with a reply. He simply brought his food up and sent it crashing down on top of the flier's face. Suddenly he and the others were on top of the fliers, punching and kicking them until energon began to seep from their broken faces and structures. Berserk felt the thrill and satisfaction as his fist hit the flier's chestplate again and again, feeling the metal bend and dent under his servos. He only vaguely registered that the fliers had stopped moving a while ago.

He felt someone pull his fist back. "Come on," Laserblast commanded. "I think I heard someone. It might be the Maximals. We've got to go. Now."

And then Berserk was running with the others, high from the violence. It was glorious.

"Do you think we killed them?" Laserblast asked as they ran. "They weren't moving. I think we might have killed them. I don't know. You killed a Maximal, didn't you Berserk? What was it like?"

Berserk didn't answer. If he was honest he couldn't even remember what the Maximal's face looked like. He had been too caught up in the heat of battle to notice.

The group split up, knowing that it would draw too much attention if they were seen running together. Berserk quickly made his way back home, his processor still buzzing with the thrill of destruction. He didn't even hear the sirens or the gossiping chatter until he came upon his home.

The door had been blasted off and the Maximal guards were going in and out of the building. There were a few who had cornered the neighbors and were asking questions, taking notes. He watched as one of them carried Carnage's safe out, empty, its door having been pried open. Berserk saw his progenitor's servoprint on the doorframe, made from Carnage's own energon no doubt. Had a transaction gone wrong? Was it a simple robbery?

Berserk saw a familiar head bobbing in the crowd, trying to see over the towering Predacons around her. It was that Maximal femme, Valkyrie. She was looking for him. She seemed upset. Berserk wondered why. It wasn't like it was her progenitor who was just murdered. What did she expect? Did she think he was going to run to her and allow her to comfort him? Tell him it was going to be okay and not to worry? Primus, she probably wanted to adopt him or something.

Berserk quickly stepped away from the crowd and slunk off into the streets before she could see him.


	4. Chapter 4

When the day came that Berserk finally reached his majority he didn't even notice.

Berserk fled that same solar cycle his progenitor died. He hadn't seen Valkyrie or Manhunter since then and he hadn't been back to school. Berserk mused silently as he drilled screws into the sheets of metal that came down the conveyer belt. It was strange. He wouldn't say he missed them. He had found the Maximals to be annoying and controlling and so convinced that they were right about everything. They looked down on his culture and way of life like they had the right to. He didn't miss them, but he did feel something for them. He just didn't know what.

Berserk barely registered the metal sheets as they continued to come down the line. He had gotten a job at a factory. A mindless, monotonous job. This sort of menial work was beneath him. He was a soldier! He should be out there fighting for the Predacon cause! Except there didn't seem to be a Predacon cause any longer. There was no leader, no purpose, and no information. The Maximals controlled everything. The only cause was survival.

The whistle sounded, the belt stopped moving. Berserk heard the joints in his knee groan as he turned and walked away. Primus, he sounded like some ancient worn-out model in desperate need of an upgrade. He had been standing in the same position for twelve cycles, continuously drilling, drilling, drilling. It left his pedes aching and his joints stiff.

Berserk quickly joined the long line that was anxiously waiting for the credits they had earned after a long hard solar cycle of work. The Predacons began to nervously shift to and from on their pedes as the wait dragged on. Everyone snapped to attention as the floor manager appeared. He shot the haggard workers a cruel smirk. "I am extremely disappointed in you all. You have failed to meet this solar cycle's quota by 14%." He shook his head at the workers, like a frustrated parent. "Because of this I will be forced to suspend your pay."

Yelling erupted at once and more than one bot was hurling obscene threats. The floor manager looked unimpressed by the display. "Take it up with the Maximals if you think they'll help you," he called down at them as he walked away with his supervisors.

For a moment the workers remained. What could they do? Riot and destroy the factory? Then they wouldn't have a job. Complain to the Maximals? They still had their pride.

Mumbling with impotent rage the workers filed out. Berserk seethed silently to himself. How was he supposed to survive without credits? He needed energon and a place to stay. The Maximals' rations could only provide so much.

Berserk wandered the streets of Gamma City, heading towards the abandoned sector where he had been staying for the past few lunar cycles. He had gone back to that same building that he and his comrades had discovered the fliers. He had found dried energon on the rubble, but the fliers were nowhere to be seen. He didn't know if they had survived and fled or if the Maximals had collected their empty structures for recycling.

Berserk saw a pair of Maximal guards sitting up ahead, consuming energon. They must have been on their break. What stood out to him was the electronic tablet lying next one of them. He wanted it. Before Manhunter, Berserk had never had so much access to information before. The Training House had thought that such things as history and literature were frivolous subjects for infantry units. The Predacons taught him to fight, to obey his commanders, and to always perform his duty. It was what he was made for. It was almost sacrilegious to go against the destiny they had chosen for him. But he just couldn't help it. He craved knowledge. Any knowledge, it didn't matter. He needed it.

The Maximal was so wrapped up in his conversation that he didn't even notice when Berserk quietly swiped the tablet.

The tablet contained information on computers and programming. Berserk leaned against the hollow wall of the abandoned building as he read the text. He understood the basics, if not the details. He dug through the pages of text stored on the tablet, absorbing its technical contents. Computers were not something he was particularly interested in, but it was different and new and he needed to know more. Then he pulled up a strange document. It had no title or author. The symbols were Cybertronian but the words didn't sound like anything he ever read before.

 

So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss

Which sucks two souls, and vapours both away;

Turn, thou ghost, that way, and let me turn this,

And let ourselves benight our happiest days.

We ask none leave to love; nor will we owe

Any so cheap a death as saying, "Go."

Go; and if that word have not quite killed thee,

Ease me with death, by bidding me go too.

Or, if it have, let my word work on me,

And a just office on a murderer do.

Except it be too late, to kill me so,

Being double dead, going, and bidding, "Go."

 

Again and again Berserk read the words. He knew what each individual word meant, yet he couldn't quite understand what they were trying to say. The meaning of the story remained obscured. Still, he found it to be beautiful. It was odd. He had never found beauty in anything before. He was a Predacon. He had no use for beauty – he barely even understood the word – but if he was to call anything beautiful it would be this.

Berserk heard scuffling outside and quickly hid the tablet in his subspace compartment. He jumped to his pedes and crouched into a battle stance. He would be ready, whoever it was.

Laserblast's head peeked through an opening in one of the walls. The other bot grinned at him. "Well, look who it is!" He exclaimed. "And here I thought you got caught by the Maximals or something. What are you doing here?"

Berserk relaxed. Barely. "I could ask you the same thing," he growled.

Laserblast waved his servo as he walked inside. "Just hiding out from the Maximals. They discovered where the Ring was. Don't know why they're so concerned about it. It's not like it bothers them any."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't you know?" He looked pleased to know something that Berserk did not. "It's the Ring. Illegal gladiatorial fighting. Well, illegal now that the Maximals have taken over. According to them it's uncivilized or something." Laserblast leaned in conspiratorially. "At least, so they say during the day. Come nightfall there's a dozen Maximal commanders jeering and placing bets with the rest of the Predacons. I'll tell you, the Maximals like to pretend they're all pure and good, but I've heard a few of them say that watching two Preds pound each other into the ground is the next best thing to interfacing. Who knew Maximals liked it so violent?"

"So what? You fight for pay now?" Berserk demanded.

Laserblast shook his head. "No. Not yet. But I will! I'm working as this one warrior's assistant at the moment. I get him energon, prostitutes, you name it."

Berserk sneered. "So, you're his lackey."

"Assistant!" Laserblast insisted.

"Whatever," Berserk said with a shrug. Then an idea came to him. "This Ring… anyone can compete?"

Laserblast stared at him with wide optics. "You thinking about fighting? There are some serious, hardcore warriors there! But if anyone can do it, it would be you."

Berserk smiled. Yes, he could do it. He had been training to fight all his life. Now was his chance. He would show them all just what he was capable of. He would make the Predacon race proud.

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Berserk looked around at the swarm of bots jostling each other, catcalling and jeering as he stepped into the ring. He could spot a few Maximals in the crowd, their faces glazed over with the ecstasy of bloodlust, excited by the violent spectacle and the inter-fraction taboo. They looked like Predacons. Perhaps not all of the Maximal race was so weak-willed and retiring as Valkyrie and Manhunter.

"You think you can take him?" Laserblast whispered into his audio as Berserk's opponent entered the ring. He was shorter than Berserk by a few inches, but older. His structure spoke of megacycles of experience. He was dented everywhere and the paint had been nearly scratched off completely. There were only a few patches of dull red and purple that remained.

Berserk ignored the other Predacon as he stepped up to his opponent. He heard someone shouting to begin and suddenly Berserk was ducking out of the way as a fist came careening towards his head. He dodged to the side, punching the mech into his side. His opponent reeled back, grasping his chest plate with one massive servo as he swung the other. He struck Berserk in the helm, the force nearly causing his head to rotate all the way around.

Berserk stepped back, trying to put some distance between himself and his opponent; he couldn't pull his arm far enough back to deliver a decent punch. The crowd pushed him forward and Berserk used the momentum to latch onto the mech's shoulder and hurl him to the ground. The Predacon warrior held on and Berserk let one servo go to brace his own fall. He rolled away just as the other mech leapt to his pedes. Berserk grinned as he crouched low and tackled the Predacon around the waist. The fight was exhilarating! If only this was a real battle.

The Predacon remained standing and began to rain blows on top of Berserk's shoulders and back, but he held on. He thrust a servo between the mech's legs and, gripping him, hurled him over his shoulder. The mech flew through the air before landing on his back with a loud thud. Berserk smirked at the crowd as they laughed at his fallen opponent.

Suddenly Berserk was on his knees, hissing in pain as he felt the armor on his back burn. He turned to see the Predacon warrior kneeling as he recharged his optic lasers. Dishonorable! They had sworn not to use weapons! Berserk looked to the crowd for some sort of referee, but there was none. Just the hysterical faces of the crowd. Enraged Berserk launched himself at the other mech before he could finish charging his lasers, knocking them both to the ground. They rolled on the ground as the crowd watched, frenzied with excitement. The other Predacon gained the upper-servo. Berserk tried to push him off, but he was pinned.

The mech pulled back his fist and slammed it into Berserk's face. He felt the pain explode behind his optics, overwhelming his sensors. Again and again the other mech continued to beat him senselessly, until Berserk heard a sharp crack and everything suddenly looked muddier and darker.

He could see the Predacon continuing to pummel his face in, but it was like he was moving in slow motion. Red was flashing before his optics and it took him a moment to realize it was a warning. What warning? He couldn't hear his internal computer.

He was moving. He tried to focus on his surroundings but it was so difficult. He wasn't in the Ring any longer. The mech was gone. How long ago had that been? Berserk didn't know. He thought he felt someone grab him by his arms and legs and then he was swaying. He felt his body fall onto the concrete. He caught glimpses of the dark buildings through the fog as he rolled and tumbled down the hill, his body completely limp.

When he came to a stop he laid there, unmoving. He could feel his processor beginning to shut down, too broken to function any longer. He heard something crunch in the distance. Two solid columns of black metal stood in front of him.

"Well, what's this?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains quotes from John Donne, William Shakespeare, and Sun Tzu.

"… Except it be too late, to kill me so, being double dead, going, and bidding, 'Go.'"

Berserk felt himself come online, those words ringing in his audios as his optics flickered on. The bright red light easily pinpointed the figure sitting next to him, reading from his tablet with an amused look on his face.

"That's mine." Berserk stated, his vocalizer sounding strained and scratchy.

The red and black Predacon looked down at him and his smirk grew larger. Berserk realized that he was lying on a berth in some strange room. It was filled with all kinds of unimaginable junk, some Cybertronian and some pilfered from other alien species, all crammed inside with no rhyme or reason, creating a cozy little 'nest'. The items were all well-cared for and gleamed in the low, hazy light. They were precious to this mech, whatever they were.

"Come on," the Predacon replied mockingly. "You and I both know this tablet isn't yours."

Berserk snarled as he pushed himself to a sitting position. "So, I stole it from a Maximal. It makes it mine now."

"Do you even know what this is?"

Berserk didn't, not that he would admit it.

"This is a poem," the Predacon enunciated. "It's human literature."

Berserk whipped his head up to stare at the Predacon. "What?" He demanded. This little bit of nothing was human? He had been reading human poetry? It was treasonous. Anything that had to do with the humans was not to be tolerated by official decree. Razorclaw had stated that the humans were no better than the Autobots and Maximals; worse even, they weren't even Cybertronian. They polluted Predacon society with their thoughts and words and ideas. Something inside Berserk revolted at the idea of being a party to such treachery, but the other part of him refused to let go of his newfound obsession. Razorclaw was offline now so what did it matter? He felt a connection to that little bit of scribbling; somehow those few words were powerful enough to knock the wind from his intakes. He couldn't explain it if he tried.

The Predacon nodded, oblivious to Berserk's musings. "It was written centuries ago by a human named John Donne. It's about two lovers who must part and, because their love is so passionate, they know that they will be unable to live without the other. They've resigned themselves to death."

Berserk looked down, refusing to meet the other's optics. "You seem to know a lot about it…" He sneered, the implication hung in the air.

The mech shrugged good-naturedly, a smile on his face. "What can I say? I like nice things." He immediately sobered, however. "You fight in those underground tournaments." It was not a question. "You almost went offline. I saw the some mechs toss your structure out into the street. They probably didn't want to take you to a medic; there'd be too many questions. I was simply going to kill you, take whatever was in your subspace pockets, cut you up and sell your parts on the black market." The Predacon said it in such a nonchalant way, like it was a common thing to do. Because it was such a common thing. How ironic for the Maximals; they came to impose their law on the Predacons only to have the Predacons spiral into such depravity as butchering their dead for credits.

Berserk looked up at the other mech defiantly. "Then why didn't you?" He challenged.

Another shrug. "I don't know. I liked the poem." He didn't seem as cool and indifferent anymore. Berserk wondered just how out of character it was for the other bot to do something as save the life of a potential victim. Berserk briefly wondered what it would take for him to spare his enemy on the battlefield. He couldn't think of anything. "Don't ask me too many questions about it, I might change my mind." The Predacon commanded as he stood up, towering over Berserk's still prone form. The younger Predacon could tell that he was anxious to leave. "You just came out of stasis lock so don't move too much. You still need to heal. Here," the Predacon moved over to one large pile of junk and began to dig through the stacks of tablets. He pulled out one and handed it to Berserk. "This should keep you occupied." That carefree attitude was back again. Then he was gone.

Berserk looked down at the tablet and brought up its contents. It was more human literature. Berserk felt excitement run through his fuel lines as he read the words.

"Men at some time are masters of their fates:

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You were a Decepticon."

"I was a lot of things," the mech stated as he continued to practice with his sword, uncaring and happy as always. Berserk stood there and watched the movements rapturously. The weapon in his servos gleamed. It was gold and ostentatious and looked as though it would be more ornamental than anything else.

"You fought in the Great War. You were on Earth," Berserk pressed on. "That is how you know so much about the humans."

"You're not wrong."

Berserk folded his arms and sneered. "One would think that as a Decepticon warrior you would be more concerned with killing the enemy than picking up trinkets."

At this the bot stopped and turned around to face him. "I liked the human's stuff. Doesn't mean that I like humans."

Berserk said nothing and walked over to the wide window that spanned across the entire wall. Looking down he could see all of Gamma City. Everything seemed so small and insignificant. They must have been at the very top of one of Gamma City's tallest buildings. Perhaps this unit was once a luxury penthouse for some government official before the occupation. Berserk wondered if the other Predacon was the original owner before squashing that idea. He was a squatter, nothing more. If his rank had been high enough to own such a luxury unit then the Maximals would have imprisoned him when they took control of the Gamma Colony just like the rest of the former Predacon government. Well, those that survived anyway.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" The Predacon asked. Berserk turned to see that the other mech had come to stand next to him. He was gazing out into the sky with a happy, far-off expression. "I loved cutting through those clouds, completely invisible to everyone below, barreling towards the ground at breakneck speeds-"

"You are not a flier." It was true. Berserk eyed the mech beside him, noting the wheels. He was unsure of what exactly his alternate mode was, but it was definitely some sort of wheeled vehicle. The tall red and black mech gave him a nod.

"No, not now. I had it changed."

Berserk didn't need to ask why. Such a drastic change could only mean that he was on the run from something. He just wondered who he was running from: the Maximals or the Predacons?

"Who are you?" Berserk demanded.

The bot shot him a grin. "I'm called Doubleshot." He gave the younger mech a look that Berserk was unable to read. "And you?"

For a moment Berserk was unsure if he should reply. He didn't know much about this mech other than he was running from something and was not above dealing in Transformer parts. In the end though what did it matter? If he had wanted to kill him he would have done so already. "Berserk," he finally answered, still giving the other Predacon a suspicious glare.

"Well, Berserk, you must be a terrible fighter," Doubleshot stated with a grin. "I mean to be left in that condition-"

"WHAT!" Berserk screeched, the sudden anger choking his fuel lines. "I am a warrior! I lost because my opponent was a coward!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sur-" The older mech never finished his sentence. Berserk felt Doubleshot's helm splinter from the resounding punch that the Predacon delivered.

The former Decepticon stumbled back slightly, holding his helm with one servo. Berserk had only a moment to register the other mech's cocky grin. And then they were upon each other. Kicking, hitting, punching. Berserk thought he might have even felt Doubleshot bite him once or twice. How animalistic.

The two grappled on the floor. It didn't take long for the older and more experienced Doubleshot to pin Berserk to the ground, his forearm against his throat and the barrel of a gun pressed against his helm. "I win," Doubleshot stated simply with a homicidal smile.

Berserk bared his dentals as he felt the cool slender metal rest against his head. He hadn't even known Doubleshot had had it with him. Predacons were not supposed to carry weapons under Maximal law, after all. "It wasn't a fair fight," Berserk stated a bit petulantly. "I do not have a weapon and you knew that. Your tactics are underhanded, secretive, and cowardly."

Doubleshot laughed. "You're a little too concerned about what's fair and what's not for a Predacon. Maybe you shouldn't read too much human literature. Well, let me correct that. Lesson the first: all warfare is based on deception. Hence, when we are able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must appear inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make believe we are near."

Berserk grunted. There was truth to what the other mech was saying, but Berserk couldn't help but feel that there should be some honor amongst warriors. War could not be total chaos; there must be some rules of engagement. He didn't dare say this allowed however. It sounded far too… Maximal. Berserk repressed a shiver. By the Pit, he hoped he wasn't going soft. Perhaps he only felt this way because he was sore about his defeat. Yes, that was probably it.

Doubleshot pushed himself off and Berserk climbed up after him, the atmosphere between them now more relaxed then it had been. They had assessed each other, tested each other, and now understood each other in the way that Predacons understood their own kind. Not with the idle, meaningless talk of the Maximals, but in contest. The only way that mattered. They could be allies now. Not friends, that was a Maximal concept, but something close to it.

As Berserk got back onto his pedes, Doubleshot was rummaging through his hoard of useless items. With a flourish he pulled out a sword. It was Cybertronian, undecorated and a simple gray, but it looked strong and sturdy. Berserk caught the weapon easily when Doubleshot tossed it towards him. "You can integrate that with your structure, make it transformable. Most Maximals don't bother confiscating bladed weapons, just the guns, blasters, cannons and the like."

Berserk held the weapon a little awkwardly. Infantry models were not outfitted with anything other than one standard blaster. It was considered a waste of resources.

Doubleshot crossed his arms and assessed the other mech as Berserk tested the weapon. "You look good holding it," he stated simply.

Berserk looked down. He was unsure of what to make of that comment and so said nothing.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Berserk and Doubleshot developed an easy relationship over the course of a lunar cycle. They sparred and fought as Divebomb taught him the intricacies of wielding his new weapon with only a few of their battles ending in serious wounds. Other times they read and debated on the subtleties and meanings of human literature and discussed military history and tactics. They rarely agreed and, of course, Doubleshot was convinced he was always correct. The other mech had a competitive and boastful nature that at times grated on Berserk and other times thrilled him and spurred him on. He wasn't sure how he felt about him yet, but Berserk knew that he could not allow Doubleshot to win their little wars without a fight.

Berserk also found himself tagging along when Doubleshot went out on one of his "patrols". He scavenged the land or stole from whatever hapless bot he stumbled upon, keeping what he liked and selling the rest on the black market.

Berserk watched as Doubleshot rifled through an offline Pred's subspace pockets. The bot was lying there in the middle of the gutter for the whole city to see and yet no one paid the body any attention. Not even the Maximals. Again, Berserk found himself feeling uneasy without really knowing why. Shouldn't the bot have at least had the decency to be recycled? Did no one care that this bot's structure was being desecrated? He would have thought the Maximals would have disposed of the body. Perhaps they didn't care about the state of the Predacons despite what they claimed or perhaps living in Gamma City had corrupted their sparks. Berserk kept his mouth shut as he watched Doubleshot remove any plating and limbs that had managed to stay rust free. This is what would have happened to him had not Doubleshot – for some bizarre inexplicable reason that not even he knew – spared him. It was disconcerting to watch the other mech work to say the least. Berserk remained silent, however. Doubleshot would just mock him. He would tell him that he would have to lose his naivety now that he had left the Training House for the real world. Berserk didn't think he was naïve. He just thought that there was a right and there was a wrong, although he was often unsure which was which.

Doubleshot stood up and deposited the parts in his subspace pocket. He jerked with his head for Berserk to follow him. "Come on. I know the perfect buyer."

It didn't take long for the two to reach their destination. They turned down a dark street, avoiding the front doors and taking a side alley towards the back. As discreetly as possible Doubleshot rapped against the door. Within nanoclicks it slid open to reveal a short mech with a bored expression on his face.

Doubleshot and the mech began to discuss prices for the pieces of Predacon armor, but Berserk couldn't hear a word of it. His optics zeroed in on the insignia blazoned across the unknown bot's chest. It was red and sported long ear-like structures: Maximal. Doubleshot was selling Predacon parts to a Maximal. Without a word Berserk turned sharply on his heel and stormed down the alley.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

Berserk felt Doubleshot's servo grasp his shoulder and forcibly turn him around to face him. Berserk used the momentum to hit the other mech across the face, sending him reeling. "Traitor!" He snarled out.

Berserk felt his own helm spin as Doubleshot retaliated. Berserk stumbled as he tried to regain his footing from the strike. "What the Pit are you on about now?" Doubleshot demanded, thoroughly irritated.

Berserk found his center and fell into a fighter's stance. "You've been selling Predacon parts to Maximals!" Berserk screeched.

"You knew what I did," Doubleshot snapped. "I almost did it you. Don't make me regret it."

"I didn't know you were handing the parts over to the Maximals!" Berserk snapped back. "They shouldn't even be here! They're the reason why we have to sell the metal off of our dead as scrap in the first place! Everything was fine until they took over! You are helping the enemy!"

"War's over, Berserk."

That quiet comment was like a slap to the face. Standing there, Doubleshot no longer looked like the cocky, self-assured bot that Berserk had come to know. He looked defeated. Berserk found himself centimeters from the other mech's face. "It is not over," he hissed. "It will never be over. Not while they continue to subjugate us. They hold us down, force us to accept Maximal law because they know what's good for us. They think we're too stupid and violent to rule ourselves. We have to be contained. And you're helping them! You coward!"

Berserk moved to leave, but he was held in place by Doubleshot's servos. Berserk felt a jolt of electricity as Doubleshot pressed his face and mouth violently against his own.

He was kissing him.


	6. Chapter 6

Berserk looked down at the recharging Predacon from where he lay beside him on his berth. He studied the black and red mech's face, taking in the sharp planes and hard angles. Looking at him Berserk could feel a sense of camaraderie, of companionship, and… yes, even affection. Berserk narrowed his optics at the thought. What a dangerous situation he had found himself in. A warrior should have no ties, no family, nothing to hold him back from performing the ultimate sacrifice. Berserk had honestly never thought he'd live long enough to experience this. Predacons weren't known for having long and healthy lives. It was all the Maximals' fault! He should be out there somewhere fighting! He was a Predacon, it was in his programming! But the Maximals insisted on trying to mold the Predacons into being like them. It was disgusting and servile and dishonorable.

With quick, steady movements Berserk pulled his sword from his subspace pocket and straddled Doubleshot, thrusting the blade against the other mech's throat. It took less than a nanoclick for his optics to blink online. Berserk gritted his dentals as he growled into Doubleshot's the face. The other mech merely gazed calmly back up at him. "What is the point of this?" Berserk snarled.

"The point is the very tip of the blade, it-"

Berserk cut off the smart-aft response by pushing the sword into his neck, causing rivets of fluid to run down the steel.

The expression on Doubleshot's face hardened as he regarded the younger Predacon. "It's whatever you want it to be," he replied simply.

With an enraged snarl Berserk leapt off the mech and stormed off. He could feel Doubleshot's optics follow him as he left.

Berserk refused to look back and exited the apartment. He stomped down the dark and empty stairwell, the lift broken and useless. Since the attack this section of the city had fallen into disuse and the Maximals didn't bother to run electricity to it. Only Doubleshot's apartment retained such amenities thanks to his portable generator that he got from only Primus knew where. Berserk growled low in his throat as he tried to push all thoughts of Doubleshot from his mind. He felt anxious and restless, like he was about crawl out of his structure. He knew this was the 'wrong' thing to feel when faced with the prospect of a relationship. You were supposed to feel 'love' and 'tenderness' and 'contentment.' Whatever those words meant. At least, that was what the Maximals said. The humans as well. But what about the Predacons? Berserk was at a loss. His own people were strangely silent on this subject. It happened, of course, but it wasn't discussed. At the Training House and in the factory he had heard snatches of conversations, peppered with euphemisms, but it wasn't done to talk of interfacing and love in Predacon society. He didn't even know if Predacons were capable of love. Whatever he felt – this anxious, crawling emotion – Berserk didn't think it was love.

Cycles later and Berserk found himself staring at the door leading to Doubleshot's nest. With a tap it slid open to reveal the mech, sword in servo, going through the motions. Berserk stood in the doorway, staring at him.

Without so much as a glance in Berserk's direction Doubleshot spoke. "You're staying."

It wasn't a question, but it wasn't quite a command either. Either way it was true. He was going to stay. "Fine." Berserk growled out.

Doubleshot didn't bother to acknowledge this and continued on with his form, although Berserk could see the smirk on his face.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Berserk was awake and on his pedes moving quickly before he even realized what was going on, all thoughts of recharging fleeing his processor as the noises grew louder. He saw Doubleshot running through the apartment just as quickly beside him. They could hear the thundering of pedes just floors below them. Whoever they were there were a lot of them. Berserk doubted the two of them would be able to take on all of them in a fight. Every code of programming that made him a Predacon was screaming for him to run now, fight later.

He saw Doubleshot mouth the word "Maximals" and then, with a jerk of his head, Doubleshot led him to a wall- one of the few not filled with the bot's 'collections.' With a press of his servo a panel appeared and, after rapidly typing in a series of numbers, the wall slid open, revealing a hidden escape route. The two ducked inside, the wall sliding shut behind them. It was a small room, heavily fortified, with a ladder going straight down, and stockpiled with weapons. Berserk snatched a few blasters and grenades as he made his way down.

"This is how I escaped the first time," Doubleshot whispered as he followed down after the younger mech. "Like the Maximals could ever hope to catch me."

"What are you talking about?" Berserk hissed, but he never received an answer. At that moment they heard the muffled sounds of the intruders breaking into the apartment. The two continued their descent as quietly as they could.

The climb down took a long time. The ladder took them past the ground floor and deep underground inside a disused emergency tunnel that led underneath the city. Berserk glanced at his companion, suspicion running throughing his processor. How could he have known about this tunnel?

"How exactly did you know about this passage?" Berserk demanded. "That building… it was built for the government officials and for their progeny. If you were just a mere squatter you wouldn't have known about that passage or how to access it." Berserk left the implication hanging in the air. He didn't want to accuse Doubleshot. Not yet.

Doubleshot remained silent, but he had that damnable smirk on his face. He was proud about something. Berserk gritted his dentals. "Who. Are. You?" Berserk ground out, nearly spitting the words. He was tired of playing these games with the mech.

Finally Doubleshot deemed to look at Berserk. "My real designation is Divebomb," He stated, looking as though Berserk should be impressed. To fall on his knees in awe of the legendary Predacon.

Berserk stood there shocked for a moment before the anger began to bubble through his processor. Divebomb. One of the five original Decepticon warriors known as the Predacons. He had helped create the Predacon race. Razorclaw's second-in-command. Berserk felt his servos clench.

"You mean to tell me," Berserk hissed. "That while my colony fell – while I fought – you ran and hid like a COWARD!"

Doubleshot – Divebomb – cocked his head in surprise at the other mech's outburst. "It was a lost cause," he stated. "What would have been the point? I would have just ended up offline."

"THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE OFFLINE!" Berserk screeched. "Instead you reformatted yourself so you could hide like a rat, sniveling up to our Maximal oppressors! You're disgusting! To think that I ever let you come near me!" Berserk took a step back. He stared into Divebomb's face, the surprise at Berserk's outburst still etched across his features. "I would kill you for this," Berserk said. "But even that would be beneath me. You don't even deserve that much. You're not Predacon. You're not a person. You're nothing."

Berserk spun on his heel and stalked through the tunnel. He didn't hear Doubleshot following after him. For the first time Berserk truly understood what it meant to be betrayed. When Berserk finally emerged from the tunnel, miles outside of the city, it was like being reborn.

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It was nearly a lunar cycle later and Berserk found himself in the Tarsus Quadrant. It was completely different from Gamma City. Gamma City had once been the pride of the Gamma Colony and the moon's bright, vibrant capital; now it lay on the edge of ruin. But Tarsus hadn't been touched during the destruction of the colony and it was now flooded with Maximal entrepreneurs and politicians and corporations, all wanting a little piece of Gamma for themselves. It was unnerving to see more Maximals than Predacons in a Predacon city, but Berserk was forced to swallow his anger and pride. As much as he hated Divebomb he was right about one thing: the war was over. The Maximals had taken over completely. They gave energon and credits as a reward to the Predacons who behaved and doled out punishments to those who dared to fight back. Since the occupation the number of rebels had grown smaller and smaller, either lured into complacency with credits or taken away to a Maximal prison never to be seen or heard from again, until there was no more rebellion. Just the Maximals.

Berserk had gotten another factory job, this time run by Maximals. Unlike the Predacon factory in Gamma City he was paid in full and on time, they were allowed breaks, and they had eight cycle shifts as opposed to fourteen. No matter how ethical or humane the Maximals treated them however, they were still Maximals. Predacons should be ruled by Predacons, Berserk insisted in his own processor as he shut down his machine for the day.

Berserk wandered out into the night air with the rest of the workers leaving the factory. He turned away from the crowd and headed down an alley alone. He didn't even see the other three mechs slink out of the shadows until they grabbed him from behind and forced him inside a building.

Berserk snarled and aimed a punch at one of his attackers, but the mech dodged it and then Berserk found himself forced to his knees, his servos held behind his back by the other two mechs. The bot that he had tried to strike kneeled down one knee before Berserk. He was gray and white and Predacon. The mech smirked. "Divebomb said you would put up a fight," He stated.

Berserk felt the coolant in his tank run cold. "What does that slagger want?"

"We were told to bring you to him by any means necessary. He's going to lead a revolution and he wants you there."


	7. Chapter 7

Berserk watched as the elevator travelled deeper and deeper underneath Terranium, the main city in the Tarsus Quadrant. Despite the grim expression on his face, Berserk was in awe of how deep the pit went. Just where exactly were these mechs taking him?

The elevator stopped with a screeching halt. The doors opened to reveal a wide, smoothly carved cavern. The cavern was filled with roughly one hundred Predacons preparing for battle and in the center was Divebomb, of course. Berserk openly stared at the figure in front of him, examining the wings that protruded from his back plating. It didn't look like any sort of aircraft that Berserk had seen, but more like a metalized version of some organic creature. Divebomb had abandoned the vehicle mode that he had used while hiding for his original form. He looked… more natural and at ease with his flier's wings.

"The majority of the Maximal military units are stationed along the main energon vein that runs underneath Terranium in order to protect Maximal mining," Divebomb explained to the soldiers that surrounded him. "They've taken control of the old Predacon mining shaft, so it's crawling with Maximals, both civilians and soldiers…. Excuse me, I meant peacekeepers." Here there were some snide chuckles from the crowd. Divebomb continued, "The Maximals have completely taken control of this colony. We don't have the soldiers or the resources to retake Gamma, so we'll implement a scorched earth policy. We need to get inside and plant the bombs along this main vein. Maximal energon production doubled within the last megacycle thanks to the conquest of Gamma. If we destroy the energon here it will be a major blow against the Maximals; they'll have to go back to strict rationing if they'll want to avoid famine."

No one asked what would happen to the Predacons that currently lived on Gamma. It was understood and accepted. Better to be offline than a slave to the Maximals.

"We'll attack in four cycles," Divebomb commanded. As the Predacons scattered he approached Berserk who had remained standing by the elevator. "I'm glad you showed up."

Berserk sneered. "I didn't have much of a choice, did I?"

Divebomb grinned. "No, you didn't," he agreed. "So, what do you think?"

"That was the best you could come up with?"

Divebomb crossed his arms. "You know, here I was actually worried that I would do something you would approve of. I should have known better."

"You should have," Berserk commented. His optics continued to glance around the cavern. "What is this place?"

"The original inhabitants of this moon used to live underground, at least before Razorclaw and I conquered it and wiped them all out. Most of these tunnels and caverns have collapsed but a few have survived." Divebomb tried to catch Berserk's optics as the other mech looked anywhere but at the former Decepticon. "Are you going to stay and fight?"

Berserk jerked his head back to Divebomb. "Of course." He sounded insulted.

"You know we won't survive this, right?"

Berserk didn't feel the need to answer. No matter the outcome of the battle, it was his duty as a warrior and as a Predacon to fight the Maximals at any cost.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was surprisingly easy to get inside the shaft.

The treads of Berserk's tank mode crushed the rubble into a fine dust as he and the other infantry models pushed back against the Maximals. Berserk transformed and swung his sword, slicing a Maximal's head clean from his shoulders. All around him his fellow soldiers were falling to the ground, offline as the Maximals began to descend en masse. Berserk ducked as blaster fire flew towards his head. Filled with bloodlust Berserk tore across the battlefield at the Maximal who had shot at him. The Maximal femme panicked at the sight of the tall Predacon charging and threw up her servos in supplication in an attempt to protect herself. Berserk kicked her in the chestplate and plunged his blade into her spark chamber as she lay prone on the ground. Berserk growled as more and more Maximals began to appear. They would not let such an important source of energon go without a fight.

Berserk heard one of his fellow Predacons give a yell and looked up to see a group of Maximals heading down into the shaft where Divebomb and a few others had descended. He had to get in there and kill the Maximals before they could stop Divebomb.

With a casual backhanded fist Berserk sent a Maximal flying out of the way. He reached the entrance and had taken no more than the first few steps inside when he saw Divebomb rush towards him at full speed. The mech grabbed Berserk by the servo, pulling him through the battlefield, shooting laser blasts from his gold sword at any Maximal that dared to challenge them. "We've got to go now!" Divebomb yelled. "It's going to-"

Divebomb never finished his sentence. A bright white flash erupted before Berserk's optics. He couldn't see, couldn't hear. He felt a powerful wind lift his structure into the air and he knew the blast had sent him hurling. He thought he heard his internal computer issuing out a warning, but he wasn't sure what it said.

It took Berserk a moment to realize he was laying face-down on the ground, gasping as his intakes desperately tried to cool his overheating systems. He could hear distant screams through the buzzing in his audios. Looking up, he saw a wasteland. The explosion had set off a chain reaction, alighting the whole city in fire and chaos. The buildings and mining structures were just… gone. Like they had never existed. Bots were strewn across the ground, some offline and others only in stasis lock. The blast had seared their structures, burning away the paint and insignias. It was impossible to tell who was a Maximal and who was a Predacon. Berserk groaned as the pain began to set in. Everything hurt.

Slowly, very slowly, Berserk sat up and began to look around. He was alone. There was no one near him. He couldn't see Divebomb anywhere. Even if the blast had stripped him of his paint his alt mode was too unique for him to be mistaken for anyone other than the former Decepticon.

A loud thundering of engines sounded above him. Maximal fliers. Looking up, Berserk tried to peer through the fog, but of course he couldn't see anything. Once the Maximals descended they would begin to look for survivors. They would capture any Predacon insurgents left alive and ship them off to one of their prisons on Cybertron. Berserk had heard of Maximal prisons. Supposedly they were better than any Predacon POW camp. Better food, cleaner cells, and, most importantly, the Maximals were adamant that they did not use torture. They didn't even call them prisons, but instead liked to refer to them as "rehabilitation centers." And yet, sometimes, Berserk would hear about how a Predacon prisoner would go missing. Not only that but their records would disappear as well; any document that ever bore their name would vanish like they had never even been sparked in the first place. They were the unbots. Every Predacon had heard the rumors about the Maximal prisons on Cybertron.

Berserk gritted his teeth. It would be impossible for him to escape in the condition he was in. He would not be taken alive. It was shameful, dishonorable. He would not be a prisoner of war. There was only one option in the face of defeat.

Berserk looked down at his right servo. He had been clutching his sword when the blast hit. The intense heat had melded the handle to his palm. It would take cycles to cut the weapon free and patch his servo. Berserk suddenly realized that he didn't have any more cycles left. It didn't matter anyway; he could still use his sword in this condition.

Berserk was ashamed to admit that his servos shook as he held up his sword. He could plunge the blade into his spark chamber like he had done to that Maximal femme not that long ago; it wouldn't even last a nanoclick. There would be very little pain; at least, none so more than what he was already feeling. Berserk bent the sword inward, placing the blackened tip against his chestplate. He hesitated.

The nanoclicks went by and still the sword remained hovering above his spark.

He couldn't do it. He could not take his own spark. He was not a warrior. He had no honor. He had shamed himself and his race.

Berserk remained kneeling, the sword still pressed against him, until he felt servos grab his shoulders and wrists and push to the ground, binding his servos together. The Maximals had arrived.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is from Ota Dokan, the samurai poet.

The Maximals do not torture. They re-educate.

Berserk had not been given a trial when the Maximals had sentenced him to prison. Technically the Maximals didn't even have prisons. They referred to them instead as a "rehabilitation centers." Most of the bots on the inside simply referred to them as the Stockades.

Since it wasn't a prison the Maximals were not required to give him a trial. He had not been convicted of anything or even charged. They didn't need to. They weren't punishing him after all. They were helping him. It was for his own good. Despite what the Maximals called it, however, the Stockades operated remarkably like a prison. The guards had informed him upon arrival that the Stockades were designed to "reeducate bots with dangerous and non-conformist views into rehabilitated and socially-minded individuals."

In other words: a prison.

When Berserk entered the vast complex he had been prepared to be brutalized by his Maximal captors, to be tortured for the sake of torture like any Predacon would do with a prisoner of war. What he hadn't expected was all of this… bureaucracy. Berserk supposed the Maximals could keep him in the Stockades indefinitely but until they had gotten his signature requesting their help he was stuck in a political limbo. Because the Maximals didn't have trials there was no way for them to legally hold their "patients" there against their will. They had to get the prisoners' expressed consent.

Berserk found the whole situation to be completely idiotic and maddening. He had already admitted to sabotaging the energon. Several times. He was proud of it. What did they need his signature for? By the Inferno, what did they need the paperwork for? They already had him in their clutches, so what was the point of all of it? If they wanted to execute him or lock him away for the rest of his existence what did it matter if he had filled out all the correct forms? Why didn't they just do it already? Maximals! Berserk would never understand them.

When Berserk arrived the Maximals led him to a large cell that already had about seven Predacons inside. The moment he had entered three of his fellow prisoners immediately walked up to him and began to size him up, trying to gage whether or not he was someone they would be able to push around. Next came the questions. Most of the prisoners had already been there for several lunar cycles and were desperate to hear news from Cybertron and the colonies. Then they started swapping stories about how they came to be at the Stockades, each one boasting their tales of theft, arson, or murder. Then the inevitable question: what are you in for?

Berserk snarled at the questions and stomped over to an empty berth while the Predacons looked at him in confusion and suspicion. He didn't want to talk to these plebian criminals about the battle. They wouldn't understand. What he had done struck a great blow against the Maximals, yes, but he had also committed a dishonorable act. He should have killed himself. He should not have allowed himself to be taken hostage. He was a coward. He could not even offline himself. The Maximals had conquered him and Berserk did not know how he would be able to endure the shame.

Berserk had barely slipped into a recharge cycle when he was shaken awake by a guard. The entire cell was quiet and dark, all the other occupants still deep in their recharge. Berserk pulled himself up and followed the eerily silent guards out of the cell and down the hall. They showed him into a small interrogation room where a blue and white Maximal stood leaning against a desk. A chair sat right in front of him. Berserk allowed himself to be guided to the seat. He noticed the Maximal's blaster lying thoughtlessly on the desk beside the interrogator. It was pointed directly at him. What a casual way to threaten somebody.

For cycles the Maximal did nothing except calmly read his tablet, thoroughly ignoring the prisoner sitting in front of him. They made him wait and wait and wait. What was the point of all of this? Finally the interrogator began to speak. "It says here that you helped destroy the main energon vein on the Gamma Colony." The Maximal peered at him with yellow optics.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To cripple the Maximal forces."

The interrogator's optics continued to bore into him. They were like two yellow stones. "You did more damage to your own people. The Predacon death toll from the energon shortage is climbing faster than the number of Maximal casualties."

Berserk shrugged. He had already known that was going to happen. "An acceptable loss," he stated.

"But why would you want to harm us? We've built schools, enacted laws to protect the common bot, cleaned up the streets… We've done more good than the former Predacon government." The Maximal gave him a sympathetic look. It looked a little too practiced, a little too calculated. "You would destroy your own people just to injure those who would help you? Does that make any sense to you? Can you not see the fallacies of that line of code?" The interrogator asked, but before Berserk could answer the Maximal held up his servo to stop him. "It's alright. It's not your fault. It's simply Predacon programming. It's prone to glitches that can result in erratic behavior and processing ticks. We've rehabilitated a lot of Predacons here and we can help you too. But you have to help us before we can help you."

The Maximal pushed a tablet towards Berserk. "All you have to do is sign this." Berserk looked down at the words written on the electronic device. It was pages and pages that described how the Predacons were insane, that their processors were defective, that the Predacon government was a danger to itself and to others and he, Berserk, wanted to renounce the Predacons and live life as a Maximal. That he wanted to get better.

In less than five clicks Berserk found himself kneeling on the floor, his servos held tightly behind his back by the guards. The Predacon smirked as the interrogator shakily stood up from the ground, rubbing his sore jaw. Berserk had tried shoving the tablet down the Maximal's throat. He thought the act would evoke the appropriate amount of ironic symbolism.

The guards drug him back to the holding cell and threw him inside. None of the bots in the room so much as stirred in their recharge. Berserk quickly picked himself up and made his way to his berth, his processor clamoring for the recharge he had been denied. As soon as he laid down he realized that not all of the Predacons were recharging. Three of them, the three that first came up to him, were wide awake and watching him from their berths. "You didn't sign the form?" The one across from him asked.

"No." Berserk answered, his optics narrowed in suspicion. There was something off about these three. Somehow they didn't belong.

"If I were you I'd sign it," the bot said. "They'll keep you here in this holding cell indefinitely if you don't. This place… it does something to you. I heard about this one Decepticon spy who spent megacycles here until he was finally driven completely insane. If I were you I'd get out quick."

"Really?" Berserk sneered. "Then why are you still here?"

The Predacon didn't reply and neither did his companions. They merely shut off their optics and pretended to recharge. Berserk turned onto his side so he wouldn't have to face them. He wondered where Divebomb was. Was he dead? Had he been captured? He didn't want to say that he missed the other mech. It made him sound too soft. But he couldn't deny that his companion was often on his processor. Berserk sighed and stared at the blank gray wall. Someone had carved their name into it. He lifted his servo to trace the white lines that someone had etched into the cement.

Wasp was here.

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Berserk snarled the moment he felt himself being jerked awake. He had only slipped off into recharge a few clicks ago. The soldier looked up to see a flier leaning over him. "C'mon, it's time to get up. The Maximals won't let the prisoners recharge past seven o'clock."

Berserk grudgingly pulled himself off his berth and followed the flier to stand in front of the heavy metal door that led to the outside. The eight Predacon prisoners lined themselves up and one by one to receive a cube of energon through an open slat in the door. Berserk glumly took his cube and followed the flier to the back of the cell. He was exhausted. All he wanted to do was fall back into recharge.

"I'm Hawkeye," the flier introduced as they sat down on one of the berths. "Hey! Don't nod off. The Maximals won't let you take any naps. They look in here pretty regularly to make sure everyone's following the rules. What's your designation?"

"Berserk." His voice sounded gravelly from lack of recharge.

"Man, you're like a giant! I wish my structure was as tall as yours. Everybody thinks that just because you're a little guy you're a pushover. I'm always getting into some sort of fight. Then the Maximals think I'm the one always starting it! What'd did they bust you for?" Berserk ignored his overly chatty companion and ate his energon in silence. This did not deter the smaller flier. "You don't want to talk about it, that's okay. Me? I'm not really sure. I was just minding my own business back on Cybertron and then some Maximal is asking me for directions. He says he has some business at a nearby police station and if I'd be so kind to show him the way. I figured sure, why not? I could pickpocket his space compartment on the way. Then when we get there he arrests me! I try to do a good thing and this is what happens!"

"Then why don't you just sign the form instead of wasting away in here?" Asked one of the three bots from last night. Berserk bared his dentals as the three mechs came to sit with them. "The rehabilitation clinic is bound to be better than this place. You just sit around, nod your head at the appropriate times, tell the Maximals that you've been cured, and then you'll be out within a couple of lunar cycles!"

Berserk noticed how quiet Hawkeye had gotten. "Uh, sure," the flier mumbled before turning to Berserk once more. "Hey, c'mon. I want to show you the stuff the Maximals left in here for us." With that Hawkeye was up and moving quickly. Berserk followed; he'd rather be with the annoying flier than with those three.

"They're moles," Hawkeye whispered out the corner of his mouth as soon as they were out of audio-shot. "The Maximals planted them here to wear us down. We don't even know if they're real Predacons or not." Hawkeye then nodded to the other three occupants in the room. They sat as far away from everyone else as possible. They were dented and their paint was peeling off and there was a wild, haunted look to their optics. Whoever those bots were they were dangerous like a wild, wounded animal was dangerous. "And those are the Lunkheads. I call them that because they all follow that one big fellow. Something's been knocked loose in his helm because every time he moves his head it rattles. I don't know they're actual names. One of the moles said they were from Corsicon. I didn't think anyone was still left alive on that wasteland. The mole said that the Maximals found them there. They'd been tearing open the torsos of the dead to eat the already half-processed energon just to stay online. They never talk. I don't even know if they can." The flier stopped when he came to a small table that had been shoved between the wall and a berth. On it were about a dozen pads and tablets. "Hey! This is what I wanted to show you! It's hilarious!"

Berserk picked up one of the pads and saw that it was some sort of Maximal propaganda. There was a little drawing of a Maximal and Predacon shaking servos with the words Peace is Pretty Neat! blazoned across it. "Look at these things!" Hawkeye laughed. "The Merry Maximal and the Petty Predacon… Murder Makes Me Sad… It's like they think we're all sparklings. Although I do think all the smiley faces they've drawn give it that hint of sophistication." The flier dropped the pads and picked up another. "They also gave us some literature to read, but it's all human stuff."

"Let me see," Berserk demanded as he snatched the pad from the other's servos. He brought up the text, watching as the strange slashes across the screen translated themselves into Cybertronian.

"What's it say?" Hawkeye asked. Berserk indulged the other by reading aloud.

"Had I not known

That I was dead

Already

I would have mourned

The loss of my life."

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Berserk only got a couple of clicks of recharge for the next lunar cycle, barely enough time to shut off his optics and lie down let alone actually rest. The Maximals refused to allow the prisoners to recharge during the day and the moment they cut the lights they were dragging Berserk out of the room to be interrogated. He would stay there all night long before being brought back to the cell a few clicks before the guard would wake them all up to start the next solar cycle. Berserk had never been so exhausted in all of his life. He would be reading and suddenly a guard would be yelling at him. He had no idea that he had even fallen into recharge. He was slower than he should have been and he became confused so easily. He tried to keep himself awake by reading the human poetry but it was hard to concentrate. The words stopped making any sense. They were too difficult. About the only thing he could comprehend was the childish propaganda that the Maximals had left. The simple words and drawings were the only thing his processor could grasp. Berserk suspected this was all a part of some greater design. He stopped reading when he found himself nodding along at each word.

The interrogation was the worse. The interrogator never raised his voice, never struck him, never said an unkind thing. He just told him over and over and over again how wrong the Predacons were. How much the Maximals only wanted to help. But they couldn't help unless Berserk asked them for it. Didn't they know how hard it was to even think when he was this tired? He suspected they did. When Berserk wasn't in the interrogation room, the moles were bombarding him in the holding cell. Just give in, they told him, everything will be better if he just signed the form.

One solar cycle they threw him back into the cell only to find that the Lunkheads had disappeared. Hawkeye told him that the guards had come for them in the middle of the night to take them to the rehabilitation center. Berserk doubted whether that was true or not. The Maximals needed their paperwork. They needed a signature. The Lunkheads suffered from some retardation; Berserk didn't even think they understood language, let alone be able to write their names if they had any. How could they have signed the form?

After that the Maximals tried a different tactic.

Berserk laid down on his berth, hoping to catch a few clicks of recharge before the guards took him away. He collapsed, his processor already gone. For the next two cycles Berserk was dead to the world. He was finally able to rest his weary processor and structure.

The next thing Berserk knew he was gasping as a searing pain overtook him. He felt his chassis crushing into him, tearing into his intake valves. He couldn't get air to cool his circuitry. Berserk flickered his optics to look up at the three moles staring down at him from above, their fists raised. Then they descended once more. He felt their fists crush his structure, the weight of his chest once more making it unbearable to intake. He tried to block but his body was sluggish, confused, and addled. Within clicks he slipped away into stasis lock.

He didn't know how long he was in stasis lock, but when Berserk's optics flickered on he could see the face of the Maximal interrogator hovering over him. He tried to move, but hissed in pain. His repairs weren't anywhere near complete. He should still be in stasis lock. Somebody had brought him out of it. "Can you understand me?" The interrogator demanded. "Unfortunately we don't have a CR chamber here," he continued on. "Or else we would offer you that. Auto repairs take so long and they never do as good a job as a CR chamber. It's unfortunate that this happened but that's the fallacy of Predacon programming. The rehabilitation center has a CR chamber, though. If you signed this form we can take you there at once. You'll be as good as new."

Berserk said nothing and after a while the interrogator nodded and once again the warrior found himself in stasis lock.

For the next few solar cycles the Maximals did this constantly. They would pull him out of stasis lock before his repairs had even begun, trying to get him to sign that damned form. Most of the time Berserk was not even aware of the situation. He was delirious with pain. He could only recall vague shapes, the soothing sound of a mech's voice, someone pushing a pad into his servo…

Then he saw he was lying on a clean berth in a bright white room.

"Good morning!" A Maximal femme chirped as she came to his bedside, her smile wide and vapid. She examined his structure, making notes on her pad. "I'm glad you came out of stasis today. You had us all very worried! Your repairs were completed about two solar cycles ago and we were beginning to think that you had suffered some irreparable injury to your processor. How are you feeling? Are you hungry?"

"Where am I?" Berserk slurred, trying to get his bearings.

"You're in the Cybertronian Rehabilitation Clinic, of course!"

"But…" He didn't understand. "I didn't sign the form."

The femme frowned at him, the vacant confusion evident in her face. "Yes, you did. Don't you remember?"

"Show me!" Berserk demanded and he wrenched himself into a sitting position. "If I signed the damned form then show me!"

The femme frowned again but pulled the form up on her pad. She tilted it so he could see. "There. There's your signature." She pointed it out to him. Berserk stared at it dumbfounded. It was his signature. Had he signed it in his delirium? Then the pad was pulled away and clutched tight to the femme's chest as she beamed at him. "You'll be so happy that you came here! It's a wonderful place and we're going to have so much fun, fun, fun! You know what they say: laughter is the best medicine!"


	9. Chapter 9

It felt like there was something crawling underneath Berserk's structure. It was a terrible feeling. Every moment he could feel the sinister creeping itch that refused to give him any relief. Even during recharge that nagging feeling plagued him, tormenting his dreams until he wrenched himself awake with the burning need to do something.

It had been megacycles since he had found himself in the white, pristine Stockades and he had never been so idle in his entire existence. His restlessness was driving him to the brink of insanity. Every waking moment was spent under strict surveillance while he was forced to obey the same unyielding schedule that he had been performing since the solar cycle he had arrived all those megacycles ago. Every nanoclick was spent either eating, sleeping, or doing one of the Maximals so-called "rehabilitation exercises." It usually involved some sort of processor-related activity: puzzles or crafts, such as metalworking. He lived like a drone, his whole creation existed simply to complete the Maximal's exercises. Nothing else mattered. The Maximal orderlies and medics prevented Berserk from speaking with any of the other so-called patients. Speaking was considered a distraction to his continued rehabilitation. He wasn't in solitary but he might as well have been. He didn't even know the designation of the mech he sat next to during their rehabilitation exercises and he had been there since before Berserk arrived. The only voice Berserk heard these days were from the Maximals and usually it only consisted of "Good job, no. 765963211." It had gotten to the point where Berserk actually cared whether or not he did a good job just so he could hear another bot's voice and he hated himself for it.

He had never been prone to daydreaming before; he had always thought it was a waste of time that could have been better spent actually doing something. But he often found himself daydreaming these days. He imagined ripping the face off of one of the medics and stuffing the metal plating down their throats.

Berserk ground his dentals in frustration as he walked in a perfect line with the other patients to their barracks. He watched as the other Predacons were led to their separate cells, falling into step like slaves. If they worked together it would not be difficult to overpower them, take control of the Stockades. And then what? So they would be in command of a desolate asteroid, far away from any Cybertronian outpost. The supply of energon would stop and with no means of transport they would starve to death. Part of him wanted to do it. He would die anyway if he stayed here any longer, driven to mad violence by the oppressive silence and routine. But even now that cowardly voice in the back of his processor, the one that refused to plunge the sword into his internals, cried out in fear. No, it was better to wait and live. There was a possibility he would eventually be released. After he was rehabilitated. Berserk didn't know which terrified him the most: dying or being rehabilitated.

The guard punched in the security code and the door slid open. Berserk stepped inside the small room, blank and white like everything else in the Stockades. He heard the hiss of the door and beeping of the pad as it was once more locked. Automatically Berserk found himself lying on his berth, not from any real need to recharge but because it was what was required and expected of him. It was a part of the routine.

He didn't slip into recharge, however. He thought of Divebomb, instead. It was strange. He hadn't thought about the other mech in a long time. He stopped thinking about him around the same time he stopped thinking about freedom.

Berserk abruptly shut off his optics and forced his processor into recharge. It was stupid to think useless thoughts.

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Berserk was unsure just how long he had been in recharge when he woke to the soft patter of pedes just outside his cell. It sounded much too gentle to belong to a mech which meant it could only belong to her.

He had only seen the little white and blue femme once on the same solar cycle that he first arrived at the rehabilitation clinic. She had just smiled that stupid vacant grin of hers and cheerfully introduced him to the facility. He had thought nothing of her at first; she had just been some glitchy Maximal that worked for the medics. He occasionally saw her, moving through the facility like she was in dream, her expression happy but devoid of any sign of intelligence. Then he started to hear her at night.

All of the patients knew about her, but no one was supposed to talk about it. No one was supposed to talk, period. Berserk remembered one of the few snatches of conversations that he and the other inmates had managed to snag over the course of the long megacycles they had spent together in this place. No one knew her real designation but they called her the Sparkeater. There was one twitchy little Pred a few doors down that thought she had once been a Predacon and a spy for the Tripredacus Council. When the Maximals discovered her they had her spark removed. And now she roamed the halls of the Stockades, eating the sparks of other inmates, trying to find a way to replace her own.

Berserk had punched the twitchy Pred in the face for trying to rile him up with his idiotic story and received a lunar cycle in solitary confinement for it. That had happened in the first few solar cycles of arriving at the Stockades. He had assumed the inmate was lying for some unknown purpose; if he wanted Berserk could crush the femme's helm between his servos. How could she possibly be dangerous? But then he started to hear her at night. First came the soft patter as she made her way down the hall, then the beeping as she keyed in the code to some hapless mech's cell, and then it would be silent. How long the silence lasted varied, but inevitably the femme would walk out followed by shuffling as she led her prey away – perhaps accompanied by muted whimpering – never to be seen again. There was something… sinister about the disappearances. The bots were not released, the medics always made a point of telling the other inmates when one of their own was released to "encourage them." No, they simply disappeared. Instead there would be a new bot in the old one's cell – complete with the exact same serial number – as though it had always been him. Like if the Maximals gave him the same number and room no one would notice it was a completely different bot. Berserk had no idea what happened to them. Of course, asking questions was forbidden. No one asked questions unless they wanted to be put in solitary confinement and no one wanted that. The regular isolation and silence that he was forced to endure was bad enough. Berserk shivered at the remembrance of his one and only time in solitary: there had been no light, no sound, no movement. Complete sensory deprivation. Pure nothingness. There were not many things that could frighten Berserk, but alone, trapped with nothing but his own processor, nothing to distract him from the darkness and the silence and his own shame… Berserk doubted he would be able to survive it again with his processor intact.

He heard the femme getting closer and closer to his cell. Berserk suddenly found himself out of his berth and into his battle stance. Whatever was about to happen he would be ready for it. He would not allow the Maximals to take away his existence and wipe away all trace of him as though he had never come online.

But then the sound faded as she walked past. He heard her go to the next cell over and the beeping of the lock pad. The door opened and she stepped inside, the grinding signaling Berserk that the door had closed behind her. Berserk sat on the edge of his berth and waited.

After what must have been cycles he heard the door open once more and the femme's soft steps and the large shuffling of the Predacon inmate that followed her. More shuffling. Another bot had come to take his place.

Berserk laid back down and tried to force himself into recharge.

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When Berserk awoke the next solar cycle he was ready to once more endure the stifling routine of the Stockades. He stood in front of his door, ready for it to open. He heard the beeping and the grinding and then he stepped out into the hall where the guards and orderlies were waiting. Berserk turned his head to see just who exactly had arrived last night and received a horrible shock.

It was Divebomb. His former mentor and lover was standing next to him, head bowed, a look of complete unknowing submission. He looked like a drone.

He watched as Divebomb shuffled forward, ready to march in line with the other inmates, but Berserk could only stare helplessly. Berserk knew he was breaking routine but none of that mattered. All that mattered was him.

"Divebomb, look at me!" Berserk commanded as he grabbed the other mech's head to force his optics to look up. The flier's red optics were dull and lifeless. They looked at him but Berserk knew that Divebomb didn't register anything that he was seeing. He doubted if the other Predacon even recognized him. Berserk felt his grip tighten; it must have been painful but Divebomb gave no indication that he could feel it. If he smiled he would look just like her.

"Get back in line."

Berserk ground his dentals together as he released Divebomb's face. How dare these pathetic Maximals reduce the great Predacon Divebomb to this! He was a Decepticon warrior! One of the original Predacons!

What was Berserk doing obeying these weak, pathetic, treacherous Maximals! Had he lost all sense of pride? It was dishonorable the way he had been so meekly subdued by these cowardly bots. He felt a servo grasp his shoulder. With a roar of rage Berserk spun on his heel to slam his servo into the face of the guard that had touched him. He grinned as he felt the metal groan and dent inward.

The guards and orderlies immediately descended upon him. It did not take long to restrain him, not with ten Maximals forcing him into submission. But Berserk refused to make it easy for them. He fought them every step of the way to the isolation chamber. He wanted to make them pay.

He was hurled into the chamber and immediately all light and sound vanished. Berserk hesitantly stood up, trying to get his bearings. It was impossible to see anything. The darkness was almost tangible it was so thick. Berserk cautiously held out his servos, taking small steps forward until he felt the cool touch of metal. He wondered how long he would be forced to endure the chamber this time. Would they even let him out or just let him rust here forever?

Berserk slid down the side of the chamber, drawing his knees up to his chin. He wouldn't let this place get to him. For a while he tried to keep track of the time mentally, but it was impossible to tell how long he was there. When he started to hear things in the darkness, Berserk ignored them knowing that it was only the product of a paranoid and deprived processor. It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

He ignored the soft, faraway made-up sounds of laughter and screams and the strange mumblings that didn't make sense. It wasn't real. He clung to the thought of Divebomb. He was alive. He had survived. He was damaged, yes, but Berserk knew he could fix him. He just had to survive and stay sane. He had to get free.


	10. Chapter 10

Berserk had to learn to readjust his optics to non-artificial light. Ten megacycles. He had spent the past ten megacycles imprisoned in the Stockades and now he was finally free. He didn't know how long he had been confined in solitary, but it didn't matter. He had managed to stay sane. He had to. Divebomb needed him. His people needed him. When he emerged from solitary he was the picture of obedience. He submitted to every rule, every command without question and without feeling. He had to. It was all a part of the greater plan. What was it that Divebomb had once said? All warfare is deception? He had made his enemies believe that he was broken.

Berserk bared down his dentals in what might have passed for a grin amongst Predacons as he boarded the shuttle that would take him to Cybertron. He was free now and no one would ever dictate his actions again. He alone commanded himself.

Unfortunately when Berserk emerged from solitary Divebomb was nowhere to be found. He doubted that the other mech had been released. But Berserk was free now and nothing was going to stop him from finding his old comrade.

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Cybertron was a very different place from the Gamma Colony.

He had never seen a place where Predacons and Maximals worked side by side in such a free and easy manner. For the first time in his life he saw a group of Predacons and Maximals talking and, Primus above, joking with each other. The relaxed cosmopolitan atmosphere sent his processor into overdrive. This had been what he had been fighting against! There could be no cohabitation between Predacons and Maximals. One must dominate the other. Or one must die. Too much had happened between the two factions for it to end any other way.

Cybertron still had that undercurrent of racism – on both sides – but it wasn't something that either the Tripredacus Council or the Maximal Elders condoned. Officially, at any rate. Predacons and Maximals could be friends but at the end of the solar cycle both factions were required to return to their respective neighborhoods and lives. There could be nothing more between the two.

Berserk scowled to himself as he slowly made his way back to one of the poorest Predacon slums on Cybertron. Almost all of the bots living in this neighborhood were surviving on Maximal handouts, including Berserk to his eternal shame. He had tried searching for a job but no one was willing to hire him with his criminal record. The Maximals were afraid and hostile and the Predacons believed that it would just invite trouble. When Berserk wasn't looking for a means to support himself he was deep within the Hall of Records, looking for some trace of Divebomb. The Maximals claimed that there wasn't a former Decepticon by that name within their custody. That Divebomb had never been in their custody. There was no record of him at all. Nothing. For all intents and purposes the Maximals still considered Divebomb to be at large.

Berserk did not know what sort of game the Maximals were playing but he was certain of one thing: he was going to win.

"Well, hey there, you're big fella, ain'tcha?" A tall, reedy looking Maximal bounded up beside him, looking him up and down with a cocky grin. Berserk scowled and said nothing; hopefully the glitch would get the hint. He didn't. "What's your designation, big guy? Mine is The Situation." At this the Maximal did some odd gesture with his servos.

Berserk didn't want to be sent back to the Stockades and so refrained from killing the bot. The Maximals would not like it if a Predacon murdered one of their own. Even if he was annoying.

"Not a big talker, huh? That's cool. You seem to be down on your luck, Pred. I've got a little proposition for ya."

"No." Berserk didn't even bother to look in the Maximal's direction. Whatever the mech was offering Berserk definitely did not want it.

The Maximal seemed to understand what Berserk was processing because he laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not a pimp. I'm a scout. I can tell you're new to Cybertron so you may not be aware, but Cybertron is famous for its fighting arenas."

That had been one of the first things that Berserk had checked into when he arrived. "I was aware. The officials were not keen on allowing a Predacon murderer to step into the ring."

The Maximal's laugh got a little more high-pitched and nervous. Berserk smiled to himself. "Yeah, well, those are the official matches," the Maximal explained. "They have to follow all them rules so they don't get shut down. But the unofficial matches don't care about all that."

At that Berserk stopped and finally gave the Maximal his undivided attention. This was the first time he had heard of Cybertron having an illegal underground fighting arena. He had assumed that such criminal activity did not occur on the planet. He should have known better. "I'm listening."

At once 'The Situation' stood up straight, almost looking Berserk in the eye, that cocky grin firmly back in place. "Okay, here's the deal: you fight, you win, you get the pot. Minus 30% for finder's fees, of course." The Maximal grinned. "Man, Packer is going to fry his circuits when you step into the ring. He's got all his money riding on this retired Maximal cop. The little rat-faced glitch hates Predacons. I can't wait 'til you clean him out. Me? I'm an open-minded kind of bot. Live and let live I say."

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Berserk grinned wildly as he brought down his sword in a gleaming arc, slicing the Maximal's trigger servo clean off. Weaponless the Maximal sent him a panicked look before Berserk nearly took his head off with a kick to the face. The mech's optics went out and with a sickening thud the bot fell to the floor.

Berserk stood straight amidst the boos and cheers. He thought he saw out of the corner of his optic a short Maximal angrily tear his tickets to pieces before storming out. This was the sixth match in a row that he had won with little effort. He had been worried that all the megacycles he had spent idle in the Stockades would have made him soft, but he was still as strong and sharp as ever. It was exhilarating being able to fight again.

Berserk left the ring and headed back through the lockers where he knew the Situation would be waiting for him to give him his part of the cut.

"Very impressive, yeesss."

Berserk whirled around, his sword drawn as he came face to face with a tall, menacing Predacon. The Predacon stepped out of the shadows with a cool, calculating look in his optics. The mech was even taller than Berserk. He was silver and purple and confident; he knew without a doubt that Berserk was no threat to him. Berserk took a step back.

The mech held up his servos. "Now, now, I'm not looking for a fight," he stated in a smooth, cultured voice. "Allow me to introduce myself: I am Megatron."

A short, barking laugh escaped from Berserk's vocalizer before he could stop it. Megatron? Really? With a designation like that Berserk knew that the mech had to be compensating for something.

The large mech narrowed his eyes briefly before it smoothed away into that serpent's smile of his. "It is a codename that I use when conducting certain business. I have a reputation to uphold, unlike yourself, and cannot be seen engaging in typical Predacon behavior, nooo. I've heard a lot about you, Berserk. You've made quite a name here this past lunar cycle. I would like to conduct an interview with you, if I may."

"About what?" He snarled out, unimpressed by the pretentious mech in front of him.

The grin grew wider. "About your stay in the Stockades."

His interest piqued, Berserk followed the mysterious Predacon out of the arena and across the city.

Megatron led him to an out-of-the-way building in one of the most affluent Predacon neighborhoods on Cybertron. It was an office of some sort with a hidden room in the back where Megatron gestured Berserk into. The whole atmosphere made the warrior anxious. The situation was entirely too odd. What was the purpose of leading him here? The only thing that soothed Berserk's worried processor was the fact that despite whatever the other bot had planned he would not go down easily.

Instead of attacking, however, Megatron slid into one of the chairs, gesturing Berserk to do the same. He did so, hesitantly.

"Now, tell me about your time in the Stockades," Megatron drawled, looking at Berserk intently.

Berserk shrugged, trying to subdue the whispers of paranoia still running through his processor. "I was taken to a holding area for several lunar cycles where they forced my signature-"

Megatron waved his servo impatiently. "Standard Maximal procedure. They're absolutely obsessed with bureaucracy and paperwork. No, tell me about what happened after you were processed, when you were in the Stockades proper. Did you hear or see anything that dealt with sparks?"

"Not exactly," Berserk replied cautiously. "Why do want to know?"

"My sources have been hearing some… interesting… rumors," Megatron stated. "Regarding the Maximals and their possible experimentation on sparks."

"I never heard of such a thing," Berserk replied. "A few bots disappeared under suspicious circumstances and there were rumors of one of the guards – a femme – devouring the sparks of prisoners, but as far as I know that is all that it was- a rumor. I don't know where they took the bots that disappeared or what they did with them."

"Hrm," Megatron mused. "This is most troubling indeed. If the Maximals are planning something then I must strike first…" Shaking himself out of his thoughts Megatron once more regarded the mech before him. "You see, my dear Berserk, I did not choose the name Megatron simply because of ego. Our great leader Megatron saw the true destiny of the Decepticon race and I believe it is time that his descendants, the Predacons, break free of the shackles placed upon them by the Maximals and that cursed Pax Cybertronia. I am the leader of a small organization dedicated to ushering in a new era of Predacon superiority." Megatron shot him that shark-like smile of his. "I know you're no friend of the Maximals, Berserk. You were a major player in Divebomb's revolt, as ill-thought out and misguided as it was."

Berserk bared his dentals in warning. Megatron merely laughed.

"What you and your comrades lacked was a plan. Instead of thinking things through you merely blundered your way into destroying valuable resources."

"Oh, and I suppose you've come up with something better then?" Berserk sneered. His intakes had started to work in overdrive to cool his rapidly heating system. He how dare this impertinent mech speak about things he knew nothing about!

"As a matter of fact, I have," he stated. "The Maximals have a Golden Disk. I believe it contains vital information on the location of Earth, a planet that holds a vast amount of energon, the likes of which has never been recorded anywhere else in the known universe. Not only will I get revenge on the species that helped the Autobots in their victory, the entire Predacon army could remain fueled for megacycles."

"You believe?" Berserk demanded. "It doesn't sound like you really know what's on that Golden Disk. For all you know it could contain nothing but junk!"

"I'm sure enough," Megatron snapped back before regaining control. "Actually, I was hoping you'd join me. With a few upgrades, maybe some optic lasers, I think you could be a truly unstoppable force on the battlefield. I could use a mech of your experience and skill."

Berserk folded his arms and regarded the larger mech coolly. "Oh? And what would be in it for me? It sounds like a lot of risk for something you're not even sure will work out."

"Oh, Berserk," Megatron said in his most patronizing voice. It made the soldier grind his dentals at the sound of it. "I can give you what you want most."

Berserk sneered. "Hrm, and what's that?"

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It was only three solar cycles later when he saw Megatron again, although it wasn't in the way that he had expected.

Berserk stared up at the screen before him, watching as Megatron – no, Burnout– gave a speech to the Maximals, assuring the Maximals of the Predacons continued cooperation and dedication to peace. The screen loomed over the streets of the Predacon district, the loud of booming voice of Megatron washing over the people. It figured that the Predacon was a politician of all things; Berserk knew a liar when he saw one.

"Megatron wants to see you."

Berserk turned to look at the short, gray Predacon. He could tell by the slightly confused look in his optics that the mech wasn't too bright. "What for?"

"Something about payment," the mech replied.

Berserk nodded and followed the mech back to the same little out-of-the-way room that Megatron had taken him to when they first met. Megatron was already there, standing outside, arms crossed, waiting for his arrival. "As promised, your payment," Megatron drawled out. "You should be grateful. It was nearly impossible to get for even someone like me."

Berserk ignored him and reached for the door when he was pulled back by a servo on his arm. Berserk looked up to regard Megatron impassively as the other mech leaned in close. "After you're done here come with me. Preparation must begin immediately and I have a job for you."

Berserk yanked his arm free and marched inside, the door closing behind him. He came to a dead stop as he looked at the mech before him. "Divebomb?" He called out hesitantly.

The mech sitting in the chair made no movement.

At once Berserk found himself kneeling in front of the flier, grasping his face to look into his optics. There was nothing. His optics were online but there was no intelligence behind them. Whatever the Maximals had done to him in the Stockades had reduced him to nothing more than a drone. Berserk bit back a frustrated scream. How could this have happened to someone so proud, so skilled? The once great Divebomb was nothing now. They had destroyed him in all but his body.

Berserk leaned in close and kissed him gently. There was nothing left for him. Berserk refused to allow his mentor and lover to waste away as a drone until there was nothing left. He would give him mercy in the only way he knew how.

Berserk withdrew his sword and with shaking servos held it above Divebomb's spark chamber. With a frustrated cry he plunged it into the mech's torso. Divebomb didn't even struggle.

He watched Divebomb's optics fade from red to black, shutting down along with the rest of his body.

He was dead.

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One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die!

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Dinobot kneeled on the floor of his too small cabin in the too small Maximal ship. He held up his sword in front of him, watching the light glint off the metal. He remembered being in a similar position once before.

The Maximals would not understand. His alliance with them was never meant to be anything more than temporary. They were merely tools in his quest to overthrow Megatron and, once that had been completed, he would have eliminated them. His loyalty was a deception. All warfare is deception. He hated Maximals. They were his enemies! They were nothing more than hypocrites intent on destroying the Predacon race!

So when did he become one of them?

The shame of his betrayal ate away at his internals, but he honestly wasn't sure which betrayal affected him more. His betrayal of the Maximals or his betrayal to his people, his betrayal of Divebomb? He was no longer lying when he spoke of his loyalty; he had truly abandoned the Predacons for these Maximals. He had never met anyone - Maximal or Predacon - like Optimus Primal and his crew. He knew that if Optimus were to ask him to come back to Cybertron with them now like he had all those lunar cycles ago he would not hesitate to follow him. Because he was a Maximal.

Dinobot wanted to curse the solar cycle he had ever met Optimus Primal, but he couldn't.

Dinobot glanced out the window where he watched three black birds pass by. He would never see this again. The mech turned his sword to face downward, preparing to plunge the blade into torso and slice clean through his internals. He would die on this floor by his own servo. This would be his final victory. His death was his own, no one could take that from him. He would finally regain his honor.

With shaking servos Dinobot lifted the sword…

And flung it across the room.

He was a coward.

Fin


End file.
